O quiet grave, the wicked there
No more the just molest;
The afflicted are at ease, and there
The weary are at rest.

There, close to the oppressor's bones,
Sleeps the oppress'd in peace;
And there the pris'ner's heavy moans
And cries for ever cease.

The small and great, the friend and foe,
The conqu'ror and the slave;
The rich and poor, the high and low,
Are level'd in the grave.

There lies the sceptre with the spade,
Sunk to the same degree;
And there the servant man and maid,
Are from their master free.

The coward and the brave alike,
The peasant and the peer;
The wise and foolish, proud and meek,
Lie undistinguish'd there.

Soul-rest, to saints, in heav'n is fix'd,
But body's rest till doom,
Is there, where saints and sinners mix'd
Possess one quiet room.